To the Ends of the Earth
by EmiliaMartakis
Summary: During the American Revolution, Alfred F. Jones has many dangers to contend with, but he never imagined that his own heart would be one of them. America x OC (Rebecca Heights)


**To the Ends of the Earth**

Characters/ Pairing: Revolutionary War!America x OC (Rebecca Heights)

I do not own Hetalia!

Chapter 1: The Shot heard 'Round the World

_This is my first story, so please go easy on me ad please rate and review! :)_

**April 20th****, 1775**

**The morning after the Battle of Lexington and Concord**

Rebecca was heartbroken. The soldier she previously been tending to had just passed, his amputated leg gone gangrenous. She had sat there, shocked and saddened, as the men came to take the body away, her mother offering words of comfort, though they sounded hollow to her. She had just witnessed her first death, and couldn't get over the feeling that it was her fault. After all, she had been his caretaker all night. . ._I'm useless, utterly useless. The only reason that I'm still here is because this is our barn. _All she saw was the face of the young man, tight with pain and worry. His repeated requests to be left alone, that there were others who needed her help more. And then, during the amputation, his cries for his mother. Tears stung her eyes, and she had looked away, sending a few words of prayer for him. "Hush, Rebecca," her mother had admonished. "There are others in need of your help." She was right, of course. The battle's aftermath left no end of wounded soldiers. She gathered all her strength, standing up and giving her mother a brisk nod, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

"You're right. What do you want me to help with?" This earned her a small, approving smile. Pushing her auburn hair back into its twist, her mother handed her a bucket of water.

"I want you to tend to the others. Only give water to the ones who will most likely survive the night. We have limited resources- the British have taken the well." She hesitated for a moment, as if wondering what to say.

"Yes, that should suffice. Now go."

Rebecca was only too eager to depart, the image of the young man's pained face still burning in her mind. On her way back into the wounded section, she heard the cries of pain and anguish from the wounded and dying colonists. She kept her gaze fixed on the bucket, water splashing with her every step, though one cry in particular made her look up, listening. A low moan came from the corner, and she hurried over. A young man lay on a pallet, his bloodstained shirt torn and dirty. She furrowed her brow. He was so young. . .The oldest this young man could be was seventeen. A cold shiver went down her spine. Her age and already a soldier. She placed a hand on his forehead, wincing at the burning heat of his skin. If he had a fever now, he was as good as gone, but. . .something in those feverishly bright blue eyes made her stop. She couldn't just leave him for dead like this. Tearing off a strip of fabric from her petticoats, she wet it, placing it across his forehead, then gently unbuttoned the rest of his ruined shirt, baring his chest. She sucked in a breath at the sight of the bullet wound in his side. The bullet had been removed, but the area looked infected. She sat back. There was nothing she could do for him now. . ._NO! _ She gritted her teeth. No one else would die. Not if she could help it. He wouldn't be like the other. She would heal him. She tore off another, larger strip from her skirts, soaking it in the cool water, then began to dab at his wound. The water droplets quickly reddened with his blood but she kept going, pouring water onto the wound. His blue eyes flew open.

"What-. . .what are you. . ." He tried to sit up, but fell back against the pallet, grimacing, eyes bright with pain and fever. "Hush," she said soothingly, smoothing his chestnut hair back.

"Everything will be fine, don't worry. . ."

He shook his head, the muscles in his neck tense. "You're wrong. . .everyone will die and it will be all my fault."

She frowned at his words, pausing in her care. "Why would you say something like that? None of this is your fault or doing."

He shook his head again, his gaze frantic. "You're wrong; you have no idea of what I've done. This is just the beginning, the beginning, I say. All of this," he gestured wildly across the room-"this is only the start. And it's all because of me."

Her frown deepened- had he hit his head as well?- but she resumed dabbing at the wound. "What is your name, soldier?" she asked, only half-curious by this point.

His eyes slowed closed again at her care.

"Alfred, miss. . .Alfred F. Jones. . ."


End file.
